


Smelters

by Trainmaster64



Category: Thomas the Tank Engine & Friends, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Brutal Murder, Dark, Drama, Gen, Halloween, Horror, Murder, Pain, Suffering, Torture, Tragedy, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8576980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trainmaster64/pseuds/Trainmaster64
Summary: On Halloween night, Gordon tells the story of an engine who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and ended up paying the ultimate price for its foolishness.





	

Halloween was always a frightening time for the engines of Sodor. The children loved to go trick-or-treating, and the freight trains were slightly longer than usual, but the engines both loved and hated the spooky atmosphere.

Usually, most of the engines gathered at Tidmouth Sheds to tell each other scary stories, in the hope of frightening everyone else. Edward’s stories were usually revered as some of the best on the Island, and it was expected that this year’s would be no different.

Unfortunately, the old engine had suffered a minor boiler leak, resulting in an overnight stay at the Steamworks. The other engines had still gathered at Tidmouth Sheds on Halloween evening, but some were unsure as to the point when the star storyteller would be away for the night.

The engines tried to take it in turn to tell each other stories, but no one was really scared by any of them – Percy’s story in particular was very plain and dull, despite his insistence that it was real. Rosie actually laughed once, causing the engine in question to turn red with fury and embarrassment.

Finally, James spoke up: “If no one is going to tell a decent story I think we should call it a night – this isn’t scary at all. I wish Edward were here; he’d show us all how to tell decent stories.”

“Hey! My story was good,” Percy snapped crossly.

“You told us a story about a rabbit that nearly got hit by a train after playing in the flowers. That’s not scary.”

“It was scary to me…” Percy mumbled, but no one was paying him any attention; everyone was glaring at James. Even though he was right, he still had no right to put the others down like he was.

“I’ll tell a story, then.” Gordon rolled towards the turntable to take his place as the storyteller. James laughed.

“You, tell a scary story? Please! You’ve never told a scary story once in the years I’ve known you, and I’ve known you for a very long time.”

But the other engines were interested in Gordon’s story; anything to make James quiet again. They circled the sheds, as Gordon was gently wheeled around on the turntable to begin his tale…

***

An old engine was making its way to the Smelters yards one dark evening. The engine (a blue tank engine of North-Eastern design and origin) was in fact older than most of the other engines on Sodor, and was restricted to less active roles on the railway. Nevertheless, the engine was highly regarded by both engines and crew alike.

This night, the engine was to pull a train of scrap metal to the Smelters, and then return home. The job was simple enough, and the old engine knew that it would be able to make the journey easily. The night was growing black and dark as the engine made its way.

Finally, the engine arrived at the Smelters yards. The dull red glow of the heat and melting core cast an eerie shadow upon the twisted piles of metal. The engine was by now slightly nervous (though not particularly terrified; such sights and sounds had been seen and heard before) as it shunted the train into the designated siding. Whistling once, the engine prepared to make its way home.

Then, from a corner of the yards, a voice called out:

“Who dares to enter the Smelters yards?”

A Class 42 diesel locomotive rolled out from the shadows, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Its paintwork was an unappealing shade of ochre, dirtied by the soot and smoke of the inner works of the Smelters. There was no name or number on the sides, though the engine already knew who this engine was.

“You’re Diesel 10, I take it?” the engine asked. “I heard that the Fat Controller obtained a diesel to work in the Smelters. Long-haul trains and heavy-duty shunting turns, am I right?”

“In a sense,” the diesel said quietly. “I asked you a question, steam engine, and you will answer me. Who are you?”

“I’ll thank you,” the engine huffed, “to treat me with a little bit of respect. I’m just bringing in a train of scrap and then I’ll be gone.”

“Oh, yes you will…” the diesel murmured; the engine could smell the diesel oil oozing from him and was not impressed in the slightest. The engine tried to leave, but suddenly the diesel reversed and blocked the siding. The engine was trapped.

“Let me go, please. I need to get back home; I’ve got a long journey back to Tidmouth.”

“No, I don’t think I will… not yet, anyways… I’ve still got things to tell you…”

Now the engine was starting to get scared. “I really need to get home. I’ll come back and listen sometime –”

“You’ll listen now. Have you ever noticed,” he went on, “how diesels are superior to steam engines? We use clean fuel and are efficient. We cost less and perform the same amount of work – in some cases, more. Some of us can go over 100 miles per hour.”

“Fascinating. Please let me go.”

“I said NO!” The diesel’s face contorted with anger, before reverting back to its calmer state. “Steam engines were useful in the past, I will admit… but their time is up. They are weak compared to the diesel locomotive. They need to fade into the background as they have done elsewhere. Sodor needs to dieselize.”

Suddenly, the diesel began to shudder as its roof panels opened up. A large metallic claw emerged from inside, snapping and hissing with its hydraulic and pneumatic pistons working to flex the appendage, as if it were stretching after a long spell of inactivity.

“I was built with this some time ago. This is an incredible tool that I can use to pick up metal and move it around.” Diesel 10 quickly demonstrated, tossing a large wheel aside.

“Very impressive. Let me go.”

“For years I’ve wanted to use this claw in a different way… for years and years, I’ve wanted to use this claw to serve one purpose…”

“Let me go. Move.” The engine was starting to get more nervous than ever, knowing deep down what the diesel meant but in no hurry for him to reach that point.

“… that purpose? To take apart my inferiors, my weaklings. This Island must run with diesel power alone; the times are changing and YOU will be the engine who starts the revolution.”

“Through my destruction.”

“Precisely. And I thought steam engines were completely stupid – you’ve proved me wrong. Yes, you will die to show the others what WILL happen, what MUST happen if this Island is to continue its existence. You must stand aside for us diesels to revolutionize this Island, or we will make you stand down by force!”

“You’ll never do it. You’ll never destroy this Island’s steam fleet – steam will live here forever. You can destroy me but you won’t be able to destroy everyone.” The engine tried to sound braver than it truly was, now beginning to shake with fear and understanding of its fate.

“Not once I get rid of the golden engine. You know who I mean.”

The engine visibly paled. “You can’t… you… you won’t…”

“You haven’t met me before. You don’t know who I am. But I will show you… I will teach you… what it means to feel pain… what it is to be weak as you are… to beg for death…”

Diesel 10 moved menacingly closer to the old engine. His claw snapped with anticipation of the evil he was about to perform. He took absolute pleasure in watching the engine shiver uncontrollably, perhaps aware that its miserable and wretched life was about to be put to its end by this grim spectre of death before it.

Under its breath, the engine was whispering something… the diesel noted hearing a line from William Penn’s ‘Fruits of Solitude,’ as the engine trembled before him. After reciting the line a few times, the engine whispered despairingly, “Heaven help me. Help us all here –”

Without warning, Diesel 10 lunged, tearing the engine’s funnel viciously from its smokebox. The engine cried out in intense pain, feeling the wind whip icily against the raw wound. The pain was nearly enough to make the poor engine pass out… but not quite enough.

Next, Diesel 10 lunged at the side tanks, tearing a massive hole into one of them. Raw water and liquid gushed out as the engine screamed, overwhelmed by the sheer agony it was suffering. Another snap, and one of the engine’s buffers was gone, destroyed in a single crush by the massive instrument of torture before it.

“You see, now, don’t you, how diesels are so much better than you… worthless,” he spat, “hunks of metal. We don’t use coal and water. We use clean diesel. We are efficient and perfect. We deserve to live.”

But the old engine could barely hear him over its own wails and shrieks of pain and suffering, and the raw gasps of agony it emitted every now and again.

“You deserve to die. You are nothing. We are everything.”

Again the diesel struck, tearing into the engine’s frames and stretching them into an odd curve. The engine wailed long and loud, as it felt its own body beginning to betray it and crumble around its own conscious.

“Now, be a good engine, won’t you, and beg me for death. Beg me, and I might oblige.”

The engine shrieked in pain as Diesel 10 tore into the top of the boiler, crushing the dome with one deft movement. Surely the pain would end, could end, MUST end soon? But there seemed to be no relief whatsoever – the engine was going to suffer eternally.

Truly, the engine preferred death now. Anything to escape the hell that it was doomed to suffer through, forever eternal. But there was still that last glimmer of hope and defiance, that damned courage and strength that would see it through to the end, even though it would be ITS end as well. No, the engine would go down without defeat. The engine would lose without losing.

“… n-n… nev… never.” The engine sighed wearily, smirking in spite of the pain at Diesel 10’s face contorting to one of rage.

“Very well, then. So be it – let’s keep going.”

The diesel then tugged hard at the engine’s front bufferbeam, trying to tear it away. The pain was so intense that the engine actually did faint for a few minutes; when it next awoke, its front bufferbeam was gone. The old engine felt nothing; it was doubtful that it would ever feel anything again. Forced to watch as Diesel 10 took great pleasure in crushing it and destroying it, the engine was given a brief reprieve.

Until the diesel returned to him, and without warning brought his claw down upon the cab, denting it severely and then tearing part of it away; the engine immediately remembered what pain felt like, and it was significantly worse than it remembered.

“You may destroy me but never my spirit!” The engine called defiantly, as the diesel brought his claw against its face; several teeth flew across the room, lost forever in the pile of scrap metal that was growing ever larger as the engine grew smaller and weaker.

“You obviously still haven’t learned your lesson yet. I’ll fix that NOW!” Diesel 10 shrieked maniacally, and with one huge effort he tore the locomotive’s boiler up from the frames; he didn’t separate them but had irreparably shattered the seal between them.

The engine was now completely paralysed from the severed connection; fluids gushed out of its mouth and down its running-plate as it struggled to speak and breathe. Death was imminent, and its servant was ruthless in finishing the job.

Still the engine tried to stay alive minute by minute, as the diesel kept up its work. The bunker was next to go; this time the engine’s cries were muffled by the fluid dripping from its mouth and the paralysed connections within. Now only capable of grunting and moaning, the engine made a terrible noise when its bunker was torn away. A few pieces of coal fell out, which were quickly crushed into powder.

Blind, dumb, and nearly dead, the engine tried to speak one last time. “A-harg-aough-ararah,” it gurgled, spraying the ground with water and dribbling down its chin. No one would know what it said; it wasn’t likely that the engine itself even knew what it spoke, so damaged was it mentally and physically. Struggling to breathe, it suddenly began to gargle and vomit copious amounts of water, regurgitating its life’s fluids in a vain, desperate attempt to regain its life for a few moments more.

Finally, Diesel 10 crept up behind the engine, watching it vomit and attempt to breathe with interest. After a few minutes, he decided that it was enough. Now was the time to finish what he started, and destroy the engine once and for all. Reaching forward with his claw, the diesel grabbed the engine’s boiler and held on, clamping it tighter and tighter. The old engine was nearly blue with lack of air, still gargling pathetically and trying to vomit its way back to life.

Then, with one final tug, Diesel 10 tore the engine’s boiler out of its body, separating it fully and holding it high above him. Racing forward, he held it out for the engine to see, its life now truly at its end. The engine had stopped vomiting, going a dull shade of white. Its eyes rolled slowly back, its breathing now stopped. With one final effort, the engine managed to spit at the menacing monster before it, before quietly expiring.

Diesel 10 smirked evilly; despite the engine’s resistance to the bitter end, the job was now finished. There was only one thing left for it to do, now that it was over…

***

Early the next morning a sharp, piercing scream rent through the air, shattering the calm tranquil irreparably. The scream was met by another, and then more, until the yards around Tidmouth were filled with screams and sobs, as the engines met their friend, their ally and associate, their missing engine that had at last come home.

The old engine was little more than a wreck, its body torn and shattered. The frames were stretched and twisted, the front bufferbeam was gone, and several parts were removed – the boiler was the most noticeable piece missing. What was most shocking and disturbing was the engine’s face – bruised and beaten, the eyes had been gouged out and speared on what was left of the engine’s lamp irons, denoting a nightmarish express service. Dried fluids caked the engine in a grizzly scene.

The side tanks, however, had a few words scrawled onto them. They were written very roughly and crudely, but were clear and very real:

DIESELIZATION BEGINS  
STEAM WILL DIE

***

“The Fat Controller went straight to the Smelters yards and conducted a full investigation… not that he needed to. Diesel 10 immediately confessed to the murder, saying how happy he was to have done it and how he would do it again, given the chance. He kept saying how steam engines should be destroyed and replaced with diesels, and warned them that if any other steam engine dared to get within his grasp he would do the same thing to them.”

“Diesel 10 was then sent away, with the promise that he was to never return – unfortunately, he did eventually come back as a permanent diesel at the Smelters; his strength was needed and he was available cheaply. The rest, as they say, is history.”

All around the sheds, the Sudrian engines were trembling with fear and shock as Gordon finished his story. The bigger engines were looking unnerved (Henry in particular had turned greener than usual), while the smaller engines were truly beside themselves. Thomas was whispering gently to Rosie in an attempt to calm her nerves (though this may have been to calm his own nerves as well), and Percy was trembling in his siding.

“Well?” Gordon demanded, oddly tense. “Didn’t I do a good enough job?”

“Y-y-yes, Gor-Gordon. You did a very – very good job.” James mumbled; despite his tension Gordon was pleased to see that the big red engine had indeed been spooked by that story.

“That was a very frightening story, Gordon,” Emily said weakly. “It WAS just a story, right Gordon?”

Gordon didn’t answer. Slowly, he reversed into the shed (after having turned around on the turntable), purposefully ignoring the other engines’ questions about the story’s truth. Closing his eyes, he pretended to be asleep. One by one the other engines made their way back to their respective homes.

Emily was the last to roll back into her berth next to Gordon. She appeared to be steeling herself to speak.

“It was real, wasn’t it?” she asked gently. “Your story was real, Gordon. Who was it?”

Gordon stayed silent, his eyes firmly shut. His charade was spoilt only by the lack of deep breathing he should have been emitting.

“You can tell me, Gordon. I won’t tell anyone. Please… I want to be there for you, and be with you – through this, I mean,” Emily quickly added, blushing slightly. “Let me help you, Gordon. Please. Who was it?”

Gordon didn’t answer. After a few moments, Emily decided that Gordon had actually gone to sleep, and retired into a deep slumber herself, wishing she could do more for her good friend.

After a minute, Gordon opened an eye. Carefully scanning for anyone else who was awake, and seeing nobody, he gazed upon a picture hanging close by in the sheds. 

The picture looked like it was taken many years ago. A large engine recognizable as Gordon was sitting in a siding next to another engine – an older tank engine with blue paint and outside cylinders. Gordon was laughing uproariously at something his friend had said, while the other engine gazed at him with her eyes full of shining happiness and adoration. Staring at the picture for a minute, Gordon blinked back a few tears, and then closed his eyes again, this time sinking into a deep sleep filled with blue tank engines, green tender engines, and permutations of them that seemed to burn into him…

Outside, somewhere else on the Island, a hydraulic claw snapped viciously.


End file.
